2: A Dress for a Broken Heart (1)

Krista

As I entered the house, the door creaked softly behind me, though the faint murmur of activity throughout the manor drowned out any noise I made. Before I could even take another step, one of the maids rushed toward me, her face flushed with anxiety as she fumbled with a small notepad in her hands.

“Luna, the menu for tonight—roast venison, herb-stuffed potatoes, and the fresh spring salad you requested—is that all still fine?” Her voice trembled slightly, her nervousness palpable.

I nodded without much thought, managing a soft, “That’s fine,” though my mind was already somewhere else, already tangled in the stress of the night ahead. The maid quickly muttered her thanks and scurried off, leaving me standing in the entryway, watching the house staff dart back and forth like ants preparing for some monumental task.

The sight of them moving with such urgency, reminded me of what tonight was—the Half Moon Feast. I felt my chest tighten, my breath hitching for a moment as the realization fully sank in. The feast was a cherished tradition, one that celebrated the bonds of love and commitment within the pack. It was meant to strengthen emotional ties, not just between mates, but among the pack members as a whole.

The ritual dance, the vow renewal, the playful hunt for mates—it was all designed to showcase the pack's unity, to honor the strength of romantic bonds under the energy of the half-moon. Wolves believed that the balanced energy of the half-moon amplified love, made it shine brighter, more enduring.

And it began, of course, with the Alpha and Luna.

I swallowed hard. The ritual dance Jacob and I were expected to lead, the vows we would renew in front of everyone—how ironic it felt. The pack saw us as this ideal, this perfect representation of love and leadership. Young wolves, full of dreams and desires, looked up to us and wished for the same kind of bond they believed we had. If only they knew the truth. If only they knew that the love they admired wasn’t real, that Jacob’s heart belonged to someone else, someone who wasn’t me. If they knew how much I longed for something real, something beyond this empty pretense, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to wish for a love like ours.

For me, it felt like a performance, a cruel facade. Jacob and I would stand before the pack, hand in hand, pretending to share a love we didn’t have.

With a sigh, I turned toward the staircase, willing myself to focus on something else, anything else. I’d tried on my dress for the feast at least a dozen times in the past week, but it seemed like a good distraction now. I needed something to occupy my mind, something to push aside the anxiety gnawing at me.

The house was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the staff downstairs. My footsteps echoed softly as I ascended the stairs, each one bringing me closer to the moment I dreaded. Turning the corner toward my room, I suddenly heard a noise—a low, distressed sound that caught me off guard. I stopped mid-step, my pulse quickening.

The sound had come from the study. From Jacob. Was he alright?

Before I could stop myself, I moved toward the study door, my feet carrying me forward on instinct. It wasn’t fully closed, just slightly ajar, enough for me to hear the soft creak of the chair and the rustling of papers. I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering near the doorframe, unsure if I should interrupt. But then I saw him, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

Jacob was seated behind his desk, slumped in his chair like a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. His arm was draped over his eyes, shielding them from view, while his other hand clutched something between his fingers. I squinted, leaning slightly to get a better look, and my stomach twisted when I saw what it was—a picture of Laurel. Her face was there, staring back at him from the frame, still as beautiful and haunting as ever.

A heavy sigh escaped Jacob’s lips, his whole body seeming to deflate under the weight of his grief. For a brief moment, he shifted in his seat, as though he was about to sit up properly, and panic surged through me. I backed away quickly, afraid he'd catch me watching. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through me.

I could feel it breaking, shattering into pieces so small I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to put them back together. The bitter taste of jealousy, of longing, burned at the back of my throat. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape, but the pain was overwhelming. I needed to get out of there.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I was running—running toward my room, my hand still clasped over my mouth as nausea churned violently in my stomach. The moment I made it inside, I rushed to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet just as I started to retch. My body convulsed as I threw up, the violent heaving leaving me weak and trembling. I clutched the toilet, gasping for breath, my body trembling.

Two minutes passed, maybe more. I wasn’t sure. Time seemed to blur as I sat there, knees on the cold tile floor, my stomach still rolling even after there was nothing left to bring up. The smell of vomit filled the small bathroom, clinging to the air, and I felt disgusted with myself.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unrelenting, as I wiped at my mouth with trembling fingers. I could taste the bile on my lips, the bitter reminder of everything I was holding inside. My fingers fumbled for the handle, flushing the toilet as I leaned back against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

I realized then that I was crying—really crying. Not the quiet tears that sometimes escaped when I was alone in the dark, but big, fat tears that streaked down my cheeks, soaking my skin and making my eyes burn. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked pitiful. My blonde hair was scattered around my face, a mess of loose strands that had fallen from the neat braid I’d styled earlier. My eyes were red and puffy, the lids swollen from crying, and my cheeks were flushed with the same blotchy redness that always followed a breakdown like this.

I bit my lip hard, trying to stop the sobs from coming, but they wouldn’t be held back. I was exhausted—exhausted from pretending, from holding everything inside, from trying so desperately to be the perfect Luna that everyone expected me to be.